


Masochism for Geniuses

by codswallop



Series: Masochism for Geniuses [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Kink Negotiation, M/M, Painplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-04
Updated: 2010-10-04
Packaged: 2017-10-12 10:20:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/codswallop/pseuds/codswallop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock discovers a way to turn off the noise in his brain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Masochism for Geniuses

**Author's Note:**

> This fic contains non-graphic sexualized violence and implications of past self-harm.

Sherlock has a penchant for pain.

It works out rather well, because if Sherlock likes to be hurt, John is good at hurting people--though he doesn't like to do it, or can't admit he likes it, or has some petty moral qualms around the issue--anyway it's a difficulty, at times. John _really_ likes doing what Sherlock wants, though, and he likes finding Sherlock's edge, whether he'll admit it or not. Making him whimper, making him break. So it balances out, often enough.

He's good at salves and bandages and ice packs, too, which often comes in handy, after. Once stitches. Only once. They'd both agreed that time had been going a bit too far. Well. _John_ had agreed. Sherlock had temporarily acquiesced for the sake of convenience. He hasn't actually found his own _too far_ yet, but he's fairly certain it's well beyond whatever John would be willing to do to him. For him. With him? _To him_ , Sherlock's mind insists, and the words give him a short, precise shiver at the base of his backbone.

*

They'd discovered it by accident. A chase, a fence, a fall. He'd thought he'd gutted himself at first, but after a few minutes he'd been able to stand and then hobble, clutching at his lower abdomen and texting Lestrade one-handed while John flagged down a cab. _We really should go to A &E_ had become _At least let me look at it then_ by the time they'd got home and Sherlock, most uncharacteristically, had given in. "It's not even bleeding," he'd protested mildly, but he'd lain back against the sofa and lifted his shirt just the same. He'd always been curious about what it might be like to be a patient of Dr. Watson's. He'd seen it at crime scenes, the moment when that mild, baffled gaze turned sharp and clinical. Had never thought of it as a _turn-on_ , though, not until-- And John's fingers, cold on his skin, pressing--

He'd always known pain was an interesting factor, something that sharpened his focus. It was a tool he'd used in the past, now and then, but it was too unpredictable to yield consistent results. Slip an inch, and the pain would take over, blanking out everything else. Which was also useful at times, but then there was the danger of requiring inconvenient medical intervention. Difficult questions, complications. Drugs--measurable in doses, quantifiable--had been simpler.

He hadn't known pain could be sexually intriguing, but John was the catalyst for that reaction, apparently. John, oblivious, absorbed in checking for organ damage, somehow managed not to notice the massive erection produced by his probing, but he was attuned enough to respond to Sherlock's sudden sharp gasp, sparing him a swift upward glance of concern: "Sorry, did that hurt?"

 _"Yes,"_ said Sherlock, taking John's hand and dragging it roughly, deliberately across his abraded skin. Sitting up and cupping John's jaw with his free hand, holding him steady and then kissing him deeply. It took less than three seconds for John to begin kissing him back.

It wasn't entirely out of the blue; the tension between them had been getting awfully thick lately. Perhaps not to the point that Sherlock would have ever actually done anything about it. (Difficult questions, complications.) But _this_ , this was interesting enough to justify all the risks. And John's objections had been easily overwhelmed by his own very obvious desire.

So now, most nights, they experiment together.

It's brilliant, having teamed up with a doctor, and a military one at that. Sherlock can't imagine why he never thought of it before. John's practised fingers seek out all his most vulnerable spots, knowing the intimate and intricate map of anatomy beneath Sherlock's skin: veins, nerves, muscle. The exact degree of pressure required to hurt without damage, to damage without scarring. Where and how deep to cut. The pain blossoms and kaleidoscopes through Sherlock's mind in a series of fractals, each more beautiful than the last, until pleasure explodes them all into whiteout. And then the sense of _quiet_ in his brain afterwards is sublime. It's the purest rush he's ever found.

If John is troubled--which he often is--it's easy enough to placate him. Sherlock had never found the sex act worth all the bother and mess before, but for John, he'll take the trouble. And it's fascinating: watching John's eyelids tremble shut, feeling John's heartbeat race against his own skin as he twists Sherlock's left wrist at a precise and dangerous angle, hearing John's voice, ragged and terse, right in his ear. _How's this? Yeah? More?_ His own voice, pleading, drives John _insane_ , Sherlock quickly discovers. He barely has to touch John to make him come.

So it takes _kinky_ sex to hold his own interest. He should have known. Now that he's discovered it, he's like a thirteen-year-old with his first porn stash; he can't leave it alone. Criminals go free and Anderson goes unmocked for weeks on end while Sherlock turns off his mobile and locks the door. He does finally venture round to the Yard one afternoon, when John's at work and he's bored, and Lestrade immediately corners him.

"I thought you'd blown yourself up in a chemistry experiment," he chides, and then looks closely at Sherlock. "You seem...relaxed. Too relaxed, it's unnatural. What is it? Drugs again?" He frowns at Sherlock's pupils.

"Found something better," Sherlock tells him, and doesn't bother trying to keep back the self-satisfied grin. Lestrade's frown deepens, and he grabs Sherlock by the wrist, shoving up his sleeve to check his inner arm. It's clean of patches or needle marks, but there's a thumb-shaped bruise, yellowing--John's a careful man, but not always careful enough. Sherlock extracts himself from Lestrade's grasp and goes over to rummage through the papers on his desk. The inspector's not brilliant but he's no unobservant idiot either, and Sherlock sees him noticing his limited range of movement.

"You and John," Lestrade says slowly. "What have you been getting up to?" and when Sherlock just smiles beatifically at him again, his mouth tightens. It's only then that Sherlock remembers the rule about not bragging to your past sex partners about your new ones--but it's silly, that was ages ago, and only once or twice, it hadn't even gone well at all. He wonders if he should apologize.

"Be careful," Lestrade cautions him. "That's all. Just...be bloody _careful_."

"I'm fine," Sherlock insists, affronted. "I can take care of myself. I'm not actually a child, you know." Lestrade shoots him a thoroughly exasperated look.

"You're not the one I'm concerned about, you twit," he says, and stalks out of the room.

It is true, Sherlock concedes, that there are times when John seems less than perfectly happy about Sherlock's seemingly voracious appetite for erotic self-destruction. "You couldn't have taken up long-distance running instead?" John asks wistfully one night, changing the no-longer-cold pack on Sherlock's scapula for a fresh one; Sherlock hisses appreciatively. "I used to run. It was painful."

"Boring," Sherlock intones. "Repetitive and boring." He flips over onto his back, ignoring the shrieks of his shoulder, and reaches up one-handed to pull John down on top of him. "Besides, you like this," he reminds him. "Don't try and pretend you don't."

John sighs, and presses his forehead against Sherlock's neck; he won't deny it. "I'm just not sure it's _safe_ ," he says, not for the first time, and Sherlock could go into a litany of all the reasons why it's perfectly safe, or as safe as it can be, or safer than any of the possible substitutes or alternatives, but then John raises his head and sweeps a worried look down Sherlock's body. He's cataloguing all the small damages, Sherlock thinks, toting them up on some mental abacus or scale of harm versus pleasure. For a moment, remembering Lestrade's words, Sherlock thinks to do the same for John, whose damages are harder to see--or would be, to anyone but himself.

"I trust you," he tells John finally, his own verbal sort of ice pack, and then, honestly, "I _need_ you," and John looks startled, and almost frightened, and then pleased.


End file.
